Way Gone Down Blues

Our throat was dry, and our hearts were glad to be weak, and our shoes felt heavy in our limp hands, I spied a pool and I headed that way you followed me; the pool was clean, and I sat beside it and you sat beside me. The sun bleated softly upon our too white skin, and I rolled up my sleeves to accommodate it, and the grass was sweet smelling. You spied a buzzard circling in the azure sky, a blue not unlike human eyes, yet it was a purer blue, as if the sky was the eye of Adam, or Moses this was my thinking as I watched you be beautiful and silent as you watched the silent sky. We rolled down our old socks, and we placed them inside our old grey shoes, you're toes like children splashed and paddled in the cool clean waters. My bum became wet from the long grassy dews, and my heart rejoiced that the sun and the water and the sheep on the hillside were with you and I rejoiced that I was with you. But romantic idyll is a diversion and the real assault happens in our own lustful hearts, upon beds by windows, in tents in the wildness away from the knowledge of mother, father and god and whilst we saunter seflishly and happily secretively through the baptised isles in our newly bought hyporcacy, the wits are raped twice in one hour and there is still perpetuity in a tea cup, or a smile from a lover, or a child about to comprehend mother, but we unsubscribe and turn into electric brain machines repeating lines from scriptures, poems, words and books we noticed along the way; I recalled every emotion, every word and wrong hurt done unto me and I spoke and articulated everything simultaneously and it made sense out of nonsense!
Alice had a pretty dress, and of emeralds it was not made; Alison had a black cat and of mirrors it was not afraid; Alice dreamt a while away and returned fresh yet unmade; Alice frolicked with Prussian Cavalry officers and died a pregnant old maid. In the long dark of Frederick Wilhelm the Great Elector; slept a cumbersome military leviathan! I sat alone to ponder loneliness and my mind like some deranged locomotive oozed out every last fear upon my dry tentacle lips:
-I hate being alone; I hate it I hate it!
-We are all here, we are all friends.
-You do not understand, I hate being alone, truly alone!
-Did you not love some one?
-Once but he is lost to me now!
-Why is he lost, can you not find him?
-I threw him away, and he has found another!
-So this is why you are alone?
-No I was alone with him, but he made it seem pleasurable.
-Did you make you sullen?
-I was sombre already, for all the things I can still remember!
-I love you I truly do.
-I think when someone tells another that they are utterly in love with them, and will never leave them, and adore them with a deep soulful passion, I think so naive is the recipient, that they do not know how to react, so they invariably make errors, and treat the other with a little contempt, and push them, to see how much their words of devotion are indeed true, but you can only be pushed so far, before something breaks, and once it breaks the love seems to leak away, like water into dry earth, all gone.
-you must be correct, you are always correct!
All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. The sounds descend into a melancholic dirge and everyone sways, loose limped tall corn grass from a meadows own thoughtful reverie, 'I was once a meadow and I liked myself there.' Two the taps and blessed bugles and uniform stupidity, shoulder shuffling solidarity and all is well on the precipice of the trench foot kingdom hall and what was satiated is now negated. Done, with its old heirs and graceless faces, bench crowds, in murk and mirth ridden arousal, can any man stand here alone, remain alone and leave alone?
We are travelling journeyman of the sad longhaired infinity, dour streetlamp mystics with guitars and semen, too clever men, with too beautiful features and we congregate in rowdy drunken battlaions; easy to find a girl when you are easily found in large secret sigh thrusting sighs of the night tent secrets! So begins one whore, welcoming immigrants from the generation we dare not, and thin rich grey suited men shrink into formidable limousines and holiday in each others nuclear bunkers, where they whisper secrets of the tribe and wishful delights concerning young Porto Rican boys, 'watch out Jose keep your back to the wall'. So the intermission of thoughtful music ends and it is all fifths from here an in and the wild maniacs return to crowd each other into madness, frantic tongues miss singing the words of a song. Having a water fight before the heart ache of long years remember.
-I knew you would come. Softly spoken
-what, sorry I can not hear you! Shouting hoarsely
-I don't mind if you are near me! Softly spoken
-I have to leave you know!
-Pardon! Then the world paused, and the hiatus caused a moment, a blissful silent repose in which two daunted souls spoke, and it went thus.
-Why don't you believe me?
-You are laughing, you are laughing and that is why I do not believe you.
-I am hurt!
-I do not believe you!
- I said in mine heart, go to now, I will prove thee with mirth, therefore enjoy pleasure: and, behold, this also is vanity. I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, what doeth it?
Yet the music rolls about her hair in heavy thoughtlessness and it is imbibed and we swallowed some of the meaning, which is spilt upon the unseen floor and the cameramen slip and turn into dust before they hit the sticky brick.
-There is an evil which I have seen under the sun, and it is common among men.
-What is this evil?
-I shall tell you. A protracted pause and the universe came into existence.
-Well¦¦
-I often sleep as if I were dead.
-Most often people are dead and they appear a sleep.
-You make no sense and you're heart is aching.
Great frenzied sounds and more nipples please as the girls think we are their boyfriends and we all write poetry and read Huxley which I do and thus can never say so, but the fakes can declare that Antic Hay is Kafka's greatest satire and I turn down the shades of night and watch the thimble ghouls ram repeatedly into light bulbs that Jehovah has left on, so it is this way and no other, and memories of people fade, and disappear, and the universe is sneaking away whilst the stars are nervously pretending nothing lasts forever.
-I am made of star grime.
-the filth of the universe lingers in my toe nail.
-You make no sense and you're heart is aching.
I am born of a shower of gold, high tower mother raped by majesty and lust, the king swoons for fear and I am born of a shower of gold. The king glances across the white roofed houses; flat roofs with bathing women ' naked beauties and how he lusts, the king is rabid and lustful. Then beaten into a rhythm comparable to laughter, yet it is Roman mirth and the slaves are before us, watch out Jose because the wall now belongs to the Jews and the Buddhists, and the Jews want it rebuilt in the name of Allah.
-you scare me and I love you
-I have no hope for you and you're love
-I do not love you in hope, but in mystery
-I have no mystery but that which we hide within ourselves, Agamemnon himself could not sail another wave; as I have traversed you vile insinuating maladies
This wretched television world brought its hordes to bare fruit and the ageless watchers of dull wan eyes spluttered insults against the air, and the horses neighed into the wind and the generals obese and sublime sat twirling moustaches and sleeping with Hanoverian whores; who wept in dark places for their Catholic disgraces; hiding bundles of drib and drably shod flesh, some illegitimate heir to a Baron or stable boy. We gaze secretly at each other in the pious spiritualism of a Sunday morning we random flesh in the sweet fadings and I dare touch you, and you dare touch me; by the oceand side - before the waves on damp pebble chill. I dare say we have all become ghouls; I masturbated in the night of secret sheets about my best friend and it felt good. I walked across a farmer's field and it was good; I walked into the night which was precarious, because there were all kinds of lumps, dead saints and divots in the deep uneasy earth; hands of saints like rotten cellery groping at my weak bare ankles. She doesn't like it when people treat her ugliness as a malady, and all her poetic words crowd the gutter as if some dreadful ailment massacred every dove in the world, and the jocund summer midnight approaches; she is ugly and she hates her dried skin pale uniformity, those that have nothing in the way of beauty or intellect when quesitoned, lie and say "oh it does not bother me to be mediocre" only the truly mediocre talk of mediocrity as if it is a prize won, and not a shameful curse found. There is hate in the world and I am sad because of it; there are lies to god in the world and I am sad because of it, I am in and of the world and I am lonely because of it!
The roof is too low and the cameramen complain about the noise so the promoter turns into an angel and plugs up the whole in the atmosphere but this is not nearly enough, 'MORE BLONDES' they cry with their ideological eye, a great machine selecting what we think. I think they know it is best for us and we devour it. They print leaflets and books and we read them and believe them for we are easy in our blissful ignorant some what how faithlesness. But we see the stars are on fire they shall not burn forever nor will coal and I pretend I'm in a coffin and we crash about the floor looking for the shaman and the doors are closed because they sold the keys to network television and golf shoe advertisements.
I knew remorse and I feared God but I desired to kiss my best friend; in this I fear everything. My weary feet plodded on, crossed two roads in the dark, remembered much too much in the dark, it was daunting, but as long as the town blazed its neon eyes far behind, there was nothing left but to sin secretly and be pleaured secretly. The scariest aspect was the distant bark of dog's, such are Saturday night human things, I kept on envisaging some wild blood eyed mongrel charging at me from some unseen corner of midnight! Yet looking back, looking askance, I know the fear was worth, the beautiful wisdoms of a hermits lustful journey. I stood before a river and thought it beautiful, I sat beside clumps of grass and thought the dark spacious and free; I heard Solomon cry; All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.
Wailing like crazies in bleak foreboding impish hair, and shadows under our memories, we once had halos and our wings were naïve caterpillars, singing odes to air born infinity. Sadly displaced from the divine, down the white tiled walls we slither; our mouth is dry and our loins throb and ache - our guts wretch and the world begins asking intimate questions about ourselves; I once kissed a boy, it felt good - yet I told no one not even god; I once betrayed my lover and I told no one; it felt good. Sensuality makes meek treasons every day and it feels good. We are the galactic heart condensation band, Captain Persephone and the Mystery Flowers played at my college; the girls went crazy and devoured them; sexual cannibalism once again out into the oceans once more we few shamans of Styx, lingering about the waters edge, strange creatures from nights mystic depths; with erect nipples and phallus's!
The beaches are abandoned and the sins keep us like laboratory mice in scented cages; with electric machines and luke warmcoffee pots. We must suffer the last ritualised midnight, a soft melodic panegyric to the Orpheus muse; who went dancing and singing - but the politicians made him illegal; they made 'brown sugar' illegal; they made 'Tom thumbs Blues' illegal; I sat and listened to Joan Baez when it rained outside; I sat and watche the alluring vinyl twirl; I have no sofa so I sit on the floor naked; I masturbate and feel no shame to bathe immediately; I keep my friends close and my enemies become vague things living in some other realm and their goddess's have no talent; and their heroe's are twelve year old boys kicking spheres of pig skin or miming to a dance and song that made Hercules weep in fear; I sat upon the hard wood, and my ankles ached; I glanced at the rain outside and my heart ached; I was listening to everybodies timeless freedom and the English infinity gestapo arrived and made sound illegal. They beat me with promises and I bought a fast food restaurant and grew an army of fat ten year olds who looked like toads but spoke like frightened people; like rabbits in fear and lost in some dark warren; don't be afraid of the black rabbit.
-If you follow me, I shall not lead you astray.
-I have no reason to follow you.
-But if you do, then I shall keep you safe.
-Why would I be in danger?
-There is always, always a danger!
A great sandy island beyond the cerise sunrise, bobbing as a battleship and long eyes drooling over loosely stapled pornographic images, fresh upon the firing squad wall, with its sun spots and blood spots. Yet down by the river, lies a dead women, shot twice in the abdomen, here the satire of touch breaking into the adulthood of her demise. We would watch intently, often smiling, often wanting, we often caught her dead eyes from our mad jumping and skipping, we could see her lifeless thoughts, 'maybe they are really way gone, just mad, crazy lovers from the jungle where Alice forgot her name and slept' silly we wept and turned to old new yeas eve promising ghostly lies in the ghostly raint. He knew better than to ask any questions in the sweaty, dungeon of rare mystics and feel ups, firm pert breasts of a straight haired beauty waiting for a tragedy, wishing she had been raped by the phantom midnight orgasm that she spreads warmly about her inner thighs at nights retreat, in warm family sheets and oh how she feels, so the nice happy times of blissful Sodom! Not even the twelve immortals, dwelling upon Ida, drinking the Ichors of three slain bees saw that coming and the kings of television wash their teeth in the ocean so as to make lies of fish.
Way gone down blues of the repellent captivity on so fare a lush and green Isle. Odysseus bore is labour until the ocean failed her. Righteous sail that sped him away swift autocrat of the fates allowed it so. I walked home late last night, with my guitar on my shoulder, and I remembered all the beautiful phrases I never told her, and crossing the road, in the patter soft splatter of rains streetlight haze, I imagined I was superior and therefore without emotion, and my bed was only five seconds more. I asked the sky for wisdom and the sky said in thunderous certainty. 'Hope is the haggard shepherd in the rain'. It was sunny, and the world had no noise, it was a blue sky and the grass sashayed erotically against my thighs; I lay me down upon tickling stems and sweat in the intolerable heat; I become aroused out of sunshine and isolation; I write nothing - I know nothing - I can not cure the sick and so I sit sensuous and laughing in the long murky sexual gratification of summers.